Normally I could give a bloated man’s hairy arse about the Oscars® and especially the animation category, but this year I can no longer contain my flatulent forces. Two things motivated this. First, three FUGGIN films?! You mean to tell me that not only is animation summed up by trois films, but these three pieces reflect the state of international animation?! Where are some of the best festival films from the last year: Flying Nansen, The Hat, Crime and Punishment, Ring of Fire? Oh, wait ... yeah, that’s right ... I furgot ... these are SERIOUS, PROVOCATIVE, MATURE films that resemble ART. We wouldn’t want ART getting involved here would we?
The second motivation actually occurred before the first. Canadian producer Pascal Blais was REALLY pissed off because Ottawa rejected his production, The Old Man and The Sea. I wasn’t really surprised. It’s now a ritual in Ottawa. Every year, one of Blais’ films is rejected and every year he calls up to tell everyone how great the work is. Actually, it doesn’t really bother me. I’d be passionate about my creation too, but when you enter a film, you might not like the committee’s decision, but ya damn well better respect it. This year, Blais’ call was a little different. I was asked how I could reject a film that had won both in Annecy and the OSCAR®. Well, gee ... it was easy really. I had my reasons and I think they were solid reasons. In addition, ya see, we don’t look to other festivals to approve our selection. Films are judged for their technical and aesthetic merit, not their resumes. ’Tain’t a job interview, kids. Should festivals start accepting films simply because they won awards elsewhere? Some might say yes, but can you IMAGINE how fuggin dull festivals would become?
So anyways it gets me thinking about the Oscar® process (heh heh ... like processed food ... heh heh).
First off, I know all about the realities of the damn Oscars®. I don’t expect the latest Polish or Russian animation to pick up a nod. Nevertheless, we need to make clear just what is and is not going on when it comes time to consider the animation short nominees.
The Oscars® have always PRETTY MUCH ignored the international community and that’s fine, it is a celebration of Hollywood filmmaking. ’Tain’t nothing wrong with it. However since Hollywood dominates the screens of the world, markets the shit out of the event, and generally has convinced everyone that THIS is THE ONE, we should take a closer look at this event, especially from an animation perspective.
There’s no denying that having animation shorts recognised by this mammoth event is excellent promotion for a very neglected art form. However, animation is also being defined to the mass audience by a few films that RARELY reflect the diverse work that is out there.
On one hand, I figure the entry procedure is quite baffling to many animators and unless they can set up a contact in L.A., they ain’t gonna get considered. Many animators have limited time and limited funds and as such can’t fulfill the requirements as easily as North American animators or animators coming from bigger studios (e.g., the National Film Board of Canada has a staff that looks after the entries). I know Michael Dudok de Wit was scrambling like a maniac to get Father and Daughter considered. On the other hand, and I don’t have the member list in front of me, I’m gonna guess that a majority of the voters are executives, studio employees and in general people whose concept of radical animation is a National Film Board of Canada film. So first of all we are relying on people whose very idea of animation is quite limited (consciously or unconsciously) and at the same time they are being exposed to very few films that reflect the true diversity (most are all from the Western world) of international animation.
What needs to be done is to open up voting to the international scene. Animators, journalists, festival directors, students and various other international figures. Maybe the Academy can hook up with ASIFA. Let’s say an ASIFA membership gets you a vote. ’Course, this might be unfair to animation festivals, but let’s face it, none of them can—nor should—compete with the Oscars®. They are here to stay and we might as well embrace them ... like the fat, ugly, blabbing Aunt that comes to the house. (’Course we could always kick the hairy bitch out.)
Now of course you can say that these are the Star-Spangled Banner awards. Fine, if that’s the case, then 1.) stop inundating THE WORLD with a NATIONAL event; 2.) don’t accept international animation; or 3.) simply create two categories (similar to the Best Film and Best Foreign Film ... notice they don’t say ‘Best American Film’! Then again, at every Canadian video store, American films are marketed as domestic product and never in the foreign section, so it’s not all Hollywood’s fault!). It ain’t rocket science, but wait... even if it were, this is the Academy of Art and Sciences ... so surely there’s a rocket scientist somewhere on Wilshire.
I don’t even know if an Oscar® nod means anything to animators. I mean Nick Park is the most obvious beneficiary, but we all know his films were Hollywood-oriented anyway, so win or lose this guy was going BIG TIME. But where are Cordell Barker, Nicole Van Goethem, Jon Minnis, Jimmy Picker, Ferenc Rofuscz or Tyron Montgomery? Alexander Petrov has had two nominations, one win, but we all know Pascal Blais will REALLY be the fella who benefits from that trophy. Ryan Larkin got nominated in 1968 and now he lives on the street (’course that’s a pretty extreme example and it’s his fault, not Oscar’s®). Barker, Montgomery and Rofuscz, last I heard, were all hacking away on commercials. (’Course I guess the same can be said for documentary and live-action short categories as well, but tuff dodo, I’m talking about animation.) I figure if there is anything to be gained, it’s a chance to live a moment of decadence, and use the Oscar® to fund your next film. No doubt Michael Dudok de Wit was able to fund Father and Daughter thanks to The Monk and The Fish’s nomination a few years back.
Most animators I know want, at best, the respect of their peers more than anything. This is something they get from animation festivals like Annecy, Hiroshima, Ottawa and Stuttgart (to name a few). Respect from other artists is something the Academy will always be short on.
(April, 2001)
Christmas ... the season when with shining fable Heaven and Nature, in accord for once, edict and postulate us all husbands and fathers under our skins, when before an altar in the shape of a gold-plated cattle-trough man may with impunity prostrate himself in an orgy of unbridled sentimental obeisance to the fairy tale which conquered the Western world, when for seven days the rich get richer and the poor get poorer in amnesty: the whitewashing of a stipulated week leaving the page blank and pristine again for the chronicling of the fresh. | ||
| --William Faulkner, The Wild Palms | ||
“Is there ANYONE who knows what Christmas is all about?” | ||
| --Charlie Brown | ||
“Kyle’s Mom is a stupid bitch.” | ||
| --Cartman | ||
’Tis THAT time again: the moment when we imagine we are the closest to good and genuine towards those we share this bizarre world with. Me? I’m not one for xmas. Like Charlie Brown, I go through the rituals but I just don’t get it. Until my son was born, Christmas was a depressant. Even now I doubt the validity of my contentedness. Is it because my son is moderately thrilled over the unveiling of new toys? If so, that’s a pretty flimsy notion of bliss. The idea of pre-planning gifts for a loved one baffles me. Gifts and gestures should be spontaneous, not programmed for the sake of some fat, boozy guy in a red coat (himself a guise for THE company).
’Tain’t all bad. I am a sucker for the snow, the lights, the music and the xmas cartoons. There’s something almost spiritual in that feeling of pleasure and comfort I get during a soft snowfall with a little Dean Martin “Baby It’s Cold Outside” crooning in the background as the red, green, blue and yellow lights flicker on the window. Then again, maybe it’s the double shot of rum in my eggnog.
There is something fundamentally (heh heh) good about Christmas. It evokes a spirit of Christian humanism I can dig. Forgiveness. Peace. Understanding. I like everyone during the xmas season. When I’m driving I make full stops. I let the pedestrians cross before turning. I slow down to let a car change lanes. I honk out of joy, not anger. Come January 2nd though, I return to a system that cannot afford such ‘weakness’ and within days I devolve into the tired, pissed off, frustrated person I was before December.
No, this isn’t one of those calls (’cause of ... you know ... the ‘war’) for the need to think about this xmas more than any other. I should be forgiving and kind to people EVERY FUGGING DAY of my existence. That’s the rub. Xmas is like a vacation. I take a few snapshots, indulge more than usual, see the sites, talk to strangers and then take the first flight on Air Imagination back to the ‘real’ world. I emerge not wiser, just sort of umm... re-formatted. Christ, even during this hibernation/chamber session I’m rarely in possession of the spirit. Most of the time I’m half drunk, roaming around shopping malls desperately trying to spend my credit limit on ‘gifts’ (aka temporary excretions of guilt). It’s a token payback for the hours I dumped my kids in front of the TV, ignored them altogether, and for those ‘late’ nights at the office, leaving the spouse to care for the home when in reality I was drinking with the boys or tongue-dancing with the girl in the office.
Christmas, hell, life, should be about tolerance, forgiveness and sharing, but I’ve turned it into some bizarre almost robotic week where I wipe the guilt clean for the year so I can fuggit all up again the next year.
When Plato, through Socrates, said, “wisdom begins at home,” he wasn’t suggesting that we sit round the television. But like the book, radio, theatre, cinema, and vaudeville show before it, people like to be elsewhere (in a brain sense) and television has become the fountain of what we call wisdom today. Television is a guide. It gives us dreams. It gives us breath. Television is our blue pattern for life. Television gives us stereotypes and clichés. Television gives us parts of a whole. Television simplifies. We apply sitcom principles to reality. Our mistake is not filtering the residue from those images before stepping outside.
But hey, there’s hope, there’s always hope until there isn’t. Ponder that while you’re sitting on the sofa half-corked on rum and eggnog with the kids watching the annual xmas specials ’cause you ain’t gonna find much value in these tinseled toons.
On the surface it looks great. A miserable prick is so jealous of his happy neighbours that he decides to rob and loot them. Turns out that they don’t care. They have each other. They have songs. They don’t need gifts. In turn they forgive the remorseful Grinch and invite him to dinner. Now that’s a good lesson: forgive thy neighbour. Hmm ... kinda reminds me of ... umm ... well ... never mind. But hey, let’s face it, the film does not feel complete until the presents are returned and the food is gorged. They tease you with this spiritual stuff, but then walk away from it in the end. Christmas is not complete. Forgiveness and understanding is nothing without a big table of food and a whole lot of toys! Amen.
Ok ... better still is Ebeneezer Scrooge. Dante loathed avarice and Scrooge is the textbook example. He is the seven sins in one. His life is defined by money: how to make more and spend less. But the old sod doesn’t even enjoy his money. He’s just a lonely, repressed bitter s.o.b. And yet despite ruining everyone’s lives he is forgiven overnight! How exactly did he purge his sins to earn this path from hell to heaven? A visit by four ghosts. That’s it. The guy had a bad night’s sleep, awakens scared to the core, and is eager to change. Gee... s’like when you wake up with a raging hangover determined never to drink again. By nightfall, you’re guzzling a beer and another and another... Anyway ... is Scrooge really forgiven? Bob Cratchett is not exactly a man of principles. He’s a boot licker. Scrooge enslaved him and he enjoyed it ... so when Scrooge shows up at the door with a bag of gifts and some turkey, do you really expect Bob to say, “Umm ... sorry you old coot, but piss off, you’re not welcome here?” Of course not, Scrooge still pays the bills. Cratchett has no choice but to welcome Scrooge in, and hey, even if it is a momentary transformation, at least they got some good grub. Our idea of villainy is as screwed up as our idea of heroism.
Dickens was a twerp.
I really wanted to like these two ‘hip’ pieces. Both are stylish, modern and filled with a wealth of nudge-wink references. Robbie is the work of Rex the Runt guru Richard Goleszowski. Robbie shows up at Santa’s domain to replace his retired dad, Rudolph. Within he meets a villainous Blitzen (still boiling over Rudolph’s stardom), the Louise Brooks-tinged tramp Vixen, and a wealth of other cookie-cutter characters. Beyond that it’s the usual good vs evil, good Robbie gets good, but dull, chick (my blood boiled when I realized that a COUPLING was on the way) and xmas is saved ... I guess.
Meanwhile Olive is umm ... not even crap ... it’s fake crap. A dog (Olive) mistakenly believes that she is needed to save Christmas. Olive. All of. Get it. Heh heh. She is accompanied by a greaseball ‘ethnic’ penguin and chased by an evil mailman who wants to stop xmas from happening. The message? When you get through the clutter of politically correct pop culture hipness (eg. Drew Barrymore as Olive, Michael Stipe as a reindeer! Wow... way to go!), there ain’t much to this except the usual “I can be whatever I want to be” philosophy. Ain’t a bad philosophy, but when you’re a dog and your desire is to be a reindeer, the words psychotic and delusional come to mind. But hey, both films LOOK great. So if you’re looking for a one-night stand with big-busted, peroxide-haired bimbos lacking conversational skills, then by all means check out these two babes.
OK ... now this “South Park” xmas episode is funny. The idea of a kid believing that a talking piece of shit comes up the toilet bowl every year to bring gifts to fiber-fueled kids is a fine ode to the ribald tradition. And the quartet of foul mouthed, self-absorbed greedy children is damn close to the true nature of children at xmas. As with most of their episodes, the creators ridicule fundamentalist and politically correct tendencies of religious and social groups by being as politically incorrect as possible (e.g., Kyle’s self-hating Jew song, Cartman’s glorious rendition of “Kyle’s mom’s a bitch”). S’like a kid yanking his dick out of his buddies’ car window so he can take a leak. It’s initially shocking, and then it makes you chuckle until his endless waving and shouting just becomes embarrassing.
The great characters of Shakespeare’s plays were the fools. They were loutish and obnoxious ... but also the wisest and most perceptive characters in the plays. Parker and Stone are no fools.
Charlie Brown finds that he does not understand Christmas. The rituals of decorating and gift buying do not give him any pleasure. To help him, Lucy suggests that he direct the xmas play. He agrees, but then finds he cannot control his smug, ignorant classmates. After picking up a dying little green tree (instead of a big aluminum one) to improve the spirit, Charlie Brown is heckled and insulted by his classmates. In frustration he demands to know what xmas is about. As always, philosopher Linus is there to save the day. With the lights dimmed, Linus recounts the nativity scene. Gifts were brought to the Christ child who was sent here to save us. Now, being a heathen, I find that story a bit loosey-goosey, but hey, it’s the fact. Christmas is a Christian celebration. A poorly interpreted fairy tale of a fairy tale. But hey, Chuck is right; how did we go from gifts of an aroma, a tree and a yellowish metal from rock deposits to Playstation, Pokemon and roller blades? Good grief.
A man catches a kid shoplifting, binds and gags him, and locks him in a trunk while he tells the story of a superintendent who almost ‘jacked’ Christmas. The super (voiced by Eddie Murphy) is pressured to get his wife a computer ... but, failing to receive any tip$ from the apartment tenants, he can’t afford it. While xmas shopping at the local pawnshop he makes a desperate deal with the ‘shriner’-capped owner to become a repo man in exchange for the computer. The super accepts and begins sneaking around the neighbourhood repossessing items from his friends. Turns out that the reason folks couldn’t make their payments was because they pooled their money to buy the super a new sofa chair.
This is, and yeah I’m speaking from suburban middle-class whitey perspective, one of the most realistic, down to earth xmas pieces I’ve seen. The humour is biting: a tree is decorated with asbestos droppings; a man’s xmas bonus is whatever he can get pawning; the pawn dealer tries to sell back the super the watch he bought his wife last xmas; “Silent Night” is sung between spurts of gunfire and police radio calls. Best of all, the sugarcoated sentimentality we’re usually force-fed is d.o.a. And hey... any show that portrays Jesus as a poorly decorated baked potato and uses “beeatch” not once, but two times is damn fine in the Pimp’s books. There is something close to conventional narrative resolution: the super sells his chair to get money to buy back the items he repossessed from his friends. The confused ‘shrine’-capped guy asks the super why he is doing this. The super says he’s doing it for one reason: “there is no ‘I’ in friendship.”
In the final shot, the neighbours discover that the super was the repo man and beat the crap out of him. The truth ain’t pretty but, like a bowel movement, it’s necessary. It’s life.
It seems to me that if we want to extend the spiritual element of joy to our lives, it’s a simple matter of respect. Respect the values, concerns and beliefs of those we SHARE the world with. And hey, I’ve got a long way to go, so it’s not like I’m speaking from Mount Olympus. But it seems increasingly clear to me that in order to find the tools to improve yourself and those around you, you’re gonna need to live. You don’t practice for ice hockey by playing a video hockey game. You don’t practice for life through a television screen. You learn by doing. As a friend told me recently, “You got to take life in your hands and fuck it up.”
If all that fails, there’s always narcotics and liquor. Here’s my recipe for a potent old-fashioned that will make every xmas joyous.
Get a nice bourbon glass (NO ICE and NO WATER)
1 teaspoon of sugar
3 dashes of angostura bitters
Mix the two until the sugar is brown
Add a half slice of lime, lemon and orange
Throw in as much Canadian Club as you need (1-3 ounces)
Take a drink stick and mash up the fruit. Take occasional sips and keep mashing the fruit until the taste meets your satisfaction (after two of these, satisfaction will come quicker)
Add a cherry for show.
Drink, savour and watch the xmas blues fade away as family and friends become loveable and huggable with each swur... oops ... I mean ... slur-inducing gulp.
(December, 2001)
I’ll be the first to admit that 2002 was not a great year for animation films. There were a number of okay-good-decent works, but nothing that really stood out, nothing that I’ve any real desire to postpone a repeat screening of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” “Six Feet Under” or “Hockey Night in Canada” for. Nevertheless ... there were certainly a handful of films that warranted Oscar nominations over the suspect list of shorts that got the nods. Mt. Head by Koji Yamamura is about the only title (well ... okay ... maybe I can accept Das Rod) that deserves to be on this list. But are you gonna tell me that this asinine piece of shit called The Chubb Chubbs, a film that only a chair could love, or Mike’s New Car (ha ha ... the monster has problems with his car ... HA HA HA ... oh god that’s so damn original, so clever... and hey ... look, the blue monster hair is SO REALISTIC) is a better work than Chris Hinton’s Flux, Robert Bradbrook’s Home Road Movies, Jonas Odell’s Family and Friends or Priit Tender’s Mont Blanc? And what of the Mexican puppet film Close to the Bone? (Yeah ... okay ... the credits are WAY TOO LONG but still...). Hell, there are festival rejects that are better than most of these nominees.
And hold up ... before some of you schmucks start writing in saying ... “Come on, Pimp, of course the Oscar selection is a joke... what do you expect?” I say, “STOP.” I know it’s old hat to bitch and moan about the lack of taste (and yes, folks, let’s call it what it is) of the Academy voters, but look ... animation fights tooth and nail for exposure and respect ... especially festival animation. The Oscars are an important vehicle because they have the power and influence to bring these films to the attention of a much wider audience than either Annecy or Ottawa (for example) can. It’s also important for the animators from a financial perspective. It gives them leverage for future funding. Unfortunately, what the world is seeing is a heavily unbalanced, unfair, and watered-down-to-the-point-of-being-a-desert competition.
Okay, first things first ... according to a couple of Academy voters, this is how the whole process works.
To enter, you must fill out an entry form. Then you have to set up something like two to three public screenings in the Los Angeles area. This isn’t so hard because for a few hundred Yankee green (according to more than a few people, this rate magically rises each year) you can get the Laemmle Theaters to show your work of beauty. BUT HOLD ON ... If your entry has won a first prize in a recognized film festival (like ... gosh golly gee, that dandy animation event in Ottawa), you receive a ‘buy’ of sorts, meaning you don’t have to worry about a public screening.
Each year a letter is sent to all Academy members of the shorts branch asking them if they want to watch all the entries. Given that the screenings only take place in Los Angeles over the course of many weekends, there ain’t many folks outside the L.A. area goin’. This L.A. selection committee (let’s say) composed of maybe 30 boys and girls, watches all the films (so we assume) and narrows the list from about 300 or so entries to, this year, nine films (i.e., the short list).
For a film to make it to the short list it must receive an average vote of 8.5 (6 is the worst, 10 the best). Needless to say, it’s pretty easy for a few malcontent slugs to blacklist a title or two by giving low marks ... but hey ... we know that there’s no one like that in the L.A. animation community.
Now get this, prior to this year the short list was a poorly kept secret AND the films were ONLY shown in Los Angeles. Fortunately, some knuckleheads pulled their heads out of their asses and set up member screenings in New York and San Francisco (there might even be a London screening too) so that area members could vote. Unlike the animation features category, screeners are not sent to members, they must instead be screened in a theatre to be voted on. (Oh ... and apparently Canucks were invited to New York, but none were able to make the ten-hour drive.)
It doesn’t take a Mensa member to see the shortcomings here. FIRST, the Academy is only getting about 300 films. Ottawa got 1700. Annecy got around 1400. Even smaller festivals in Holland, Hiroshima and Zagreb have over 1000 entries. (Yes ... some of these are ineligible commissioned works, but in Ottawa 75% of the entries are short films.) And this isn’t really a surprise. Unless you’re fortunate enough to win first prize at an approved festival, you’ve got to fork over a few U.S. dollars to set up a screening. Most entrants would be scared off way before that when they see that they’ve got to set up a public screening. I mean ... how many non-studio-backed animators can afford this? The NFB in Canada is loaded and have staff and money to look after the Oscar submissions, but what about the rest of Canada? When was the last time we saw a non-studio-supported Canadian animation in the running? And what about indie animators in the rest of the world? They spend most of the year just trying to find money for prints, videos, stills, entry fees (in the U.S. of course)...how the fug are they supposed to come up with a few hundred magic beans AND ship their film print to/from L.A.? Tough toodies I guess.
This small body of films is then judged by maybe 30 Academy members, most of whom (not all) are either old farts and/or studio types who likely don’t go to many international animation festivals AND have a proclivity for farce/gag/anthropomorphism films. I’m not knocking them per se. Nothing wrong with liking cute monsters and all that assorted techno fetish stuff, BUT, are these same people open minded/informed enough to deal with Mulloy, Kovalyov, Pärn, Dumala, let alone Hinton, Cournoyer, Odell or Broadbrook? (I suspect of course that Home Road Movies was deemed NON-animation by the liberal Academy members.) There are other voices ... not all of whom ONLY love good ol’ fashioned chuckle a minute shorts with lovable nippleless animals, but clearly they are a minority.
So what the world is getting in the end is a fraudulent representation of international animation. And this isn’t an anti-American rant, so take those about-to-be-breathed words and stuff them back down your pipehole. These are Los Angeles awards, they are a celebration of the Hollywood industry. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that EXCEPT that you’re leading the public (those three people who care about the animation short category!) to believe that these five animations represent the best of animation around the world and, taste issues aside, we all know that is complete and utter bullshit. Why the hell not just call it the Best American Animation Short (Yes ... why not do the same with the Best Film as well!)?
So what’s the solution? Boycott? Nah ... that means even less representation. Perhaps making more of an effort to contact animators would be a start (I’ve heard through the grapevine that Ron Diamond, for example, contacts, encourages and helps a number of filmmakers whose films he saw and liked at international festivals). [Editor’s Note: Ron Diamond is the co-founder and president of Animation World Network, www.awn.com.] A better explanation of the entry procedure, or simply doing away with this ludicrous public-screening rule, would be a start. And aside from offering the Academy frat club either 1. an elbow in the mouth or 2. a swift kick up their crusty, aged cakeholes for their myopic tastes, why not invite more international representation? Wouldn’t it make sense for the Academy to have a closer link with ASIFA International? Now I realize that you couldn’t just have every ASIFA member become an Academy member, but why not invite the ASIFA International Board or the President of every national ASIFA chapter to be an Academy member? It would not only encourage those people to explain the entry process to their members, but it would also widen the taste buds of the voting process. And what about festival programmers/directors? ‘You’ might not like my taste, but you can’t argue with the fact that I easily see at least 1000 new films per year, as do my colleagues around the world. Why would the Academy not welcome the obvious expertise of festival programmers?
So naturally ... the absolutelybestestgreatestfantasticstupendo us step that the Academy can take is to vote me in, right now.
Okay ... it’s March ... Spring is coming ... the birds are singing ... let’s not end on bad terms. We’ve still got the Animated Feature category and at least the feature voters showed great humour by nominating that horsey film over Mutant Aliens for Best Feature. That’s one of the great pranks of the century. What a riot those guys are! Ba ha ha ha.
(March, 2003)
So you’ve decided to quit something. All you had to do was wait for the magic clock on the wall to hit midnight and then everything would be well again. If you say it, it will come true. Right? Well... if that was the case... you wouldn’t be making this promise for the 11th consecutive year.
My cynical side loathes New Year’s (hell... we’re just guessing that it’s really a new year anyway) along with its litter of year-in-reviews. They’re naïve and fanciful, filled with that Hollywood/ Christian wishy-wishy pixie fairy dust befitting three-year-olds’, not adults’, notion that we can just scrub the slate clean and start again. Years in Review wrongly suggest that the past can be easily compressed into readily definable categories, categories which we have developed based, in this case, on days, months and years (and from there, decades). These categories lead us to believe that we can pinpoint with ease the beginning and end points of various streams, trends or, more precisely, moments. Within this mindset, there are no overlaps, inconsistencies or broken links. Everything wraps up real nice like a Rugrats flick. We might for example look back on 2003 and say... this was the year animation hit rock bottom, that 2D animation died, Disney fell apart, or that evil-doing was brought to an end with the capturing of a single Iraqi. Nonsense, of course (and OK... yeah... sure... Johnny Cash and Jules Engel did in fact die... but they were dying BEFORE the moment they actually died).
I was afraid to ask questions in class because it would reveal my stupidity. I saw other kids laugh at kids who asked questions. I didn’t want to be laughed at. So I stayed quiet and just took everything in whether I understood it or not. I passed classes, but barely.
The problem with year-in-reviews or even resolutions is they do not ask questions. Reviews make statements that are so clear and concise that you’d have to be an idiot not to understand it. There is little room for questioning. They are just summaries, but summaries of the seemingly FINAL moment. They don’t bother with the other moments and actually very wrongly assume that this moment is the FINAL moment. We read these summaries, take them for granted and move on. Why? ‘Cause they appear so obvious that we’d feel stupid if we doubted them. And secondly... life’s a hell of a lot easier when it’s easily categorized. So we almost never ever question the validity of these summaries. We never ask, for example, WHO is saying this, from whose perspective are we getting this “take.”
Let’s take animation hitting rock bottom. Says who? Finding Nemo was #1 at the box office, Triplets of Belleville is achieving critical success beyond animation circles, more features are being made than ever before, more animation short films are being made than ever before (just look at festival entry numbers). OK... so Klasky Csupo, Warners, and a few others are slicing staff... C.O.R.E. Digital, for example, was hiring, as were an assortment of other small studios. It’s like that every year. The pendulum swings, baby.
Outside of here, Korea’s animation scene is flourishing and the Estonians had a huge domestic box office hit with Ladybird’s Christmas. Plympton finished yet another feature. Anne Marie Fleming made a first animated feature. They’re all probably feeling pretty darn good about animation right now. Animation continues to dominate television images. Internet animation continues to expand and grow. If all this is happening, how can animation be in a terrible slump? Whose slump is it? So to turn around and summarize 2003 as the year of the slump in animation would be quite misleading, offering a rather onesided perspective on what we call animation. Not everyone in animation gives a shit about Roy Disney.
Still... what choice do we have with these year-end reviews? As one of those Greeks said, a life unreflected upon is a life not worth living. If we plough forward through our lives (as Nike would have us do) giving little consideration to the choices we’ve made or will make, giving little consideration to the past, then we are not learning, we are not living. Reflection allows us that moment to stop and take account, a sort of pit stop where we can see where we are and re-tool what we think needs fixing. I dunno bout you, but I find that the days often just smash together at such a frenzied pace that I just get overwhelmed by the moment... I get so lost in a series of disconnected moments that I fail to see the larger picture... I fail to see these moments connect. As such, I lose perspective. I see only the individual moments... and they never seem to add up to anything... they just freely float separate from life.
If I have a bad day of writing or get a story rejected... I too often just want to give up, just think I’m a failure... (my Latvian animator chum just e-mailed me this morning about the same problem. She works very hard every day and has lost sight of the end... is just so lost in these daily processes that she’s forgotten WHY she’s doing what she’s doing.) Of course it’s an illusion, it’s my perspective... or lack thereof that causes this. Carving out a career/hobby... whatever... as a writer doesn’t help. It’s a lonely, silly addiction not even worthy of my dog. Sometimes you spend days punched out by doubt, fear, apathy and failure. Other days you bask in delusions of success, confidence and certainty.
You wish you could just toss it aside and get a “normal” job (which I have six months of the year)... but you know it ain’t gonna happen because, 1. you’ll get fired in a week and 2. you NEED to write, think, articulate the mess that surrounds you on a daily basis. It’s not a matter of privilege or laziness. It’s a matter of need... a chemical imbalance perhaps. I guess it’s a matter of perspective again. Writers/artists have unstructured, messy lives... art is a way of structuring those moments. It’s not all that different from a 9-to-5 job really. We try to find structure and need that sort of regiment to order our lives (of course... we all know that most of us/them then fuck around unstructured within that structure). It’s like that “Mr. Show” sketch about how a dysfunctional background tends to create more umm... artistically inclined folks. If you’ve come from function... that means you’ve had structure and order and calm... you like it... you know it... you follow it. You come from dysfunction... you know chaos, alienation, lack social basics etc... and don’t fit into those umm... “normal” compartments... although as we increasingly see... normal itself is a relative thing (check out Foucault’s Madness and Civilization or, hey... check out Philip Dick’s Martian Time Slip or the recent Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester). I hate to quote Popeye, ‘cause there’s this laissez-faire attitude he has that stinks, but there is some fundamental philosophical truth in, “I yam what I yam.”
In theory, the idea of year-end resolutions ain’t such a bad thing; it means you’ve been reflecting on who you are... and that you have a desire to break free from Popeye’s shrug. But we really seem to think that we can just erase the past and start from scratch. That’s not only a fallacy, but it’s a belief that puts unrealistic pressures on you. You’re not a floppy disk. You cannot just reformat come January 1st. If you come to realize that, you’ll make things a hell of a lot easier. All those damn promises. You don’t just up and stop drinking January 1 or diet or quit smoking. You need a plan, mes chums, a system, a structure. That’s the irony of this seemingly highly structured and compartmentalized end of year stuff... they’re actually totally unstructured. No one plans it out. It’s stuck in this click-of-the-heels, if-I say-it-it’ll-come-true fairy tale. Soundbites.
Historical amnesia remains one of the most prevalent illnesses of our time. We constantly seem to feel that we can change the future by erasing the past, when in fact we must read, acknowledge and understand the past if we have any hope of resolving the present and future. Animation isn’t going to die or thrive come January 1st. It doesn’t work like that... animation is where it is and isn’t because of thousands upon thousands of decisions made in scattered moments in different times and spaces.
(For a nifty visual translation of what I’m saying, check out Mati Kutt’s film Underground, which is all about order/disorder and how they inform one another... or what was that Belgian student film, Antipode?)
So we need a bit more balance between the moments/means and the end. We need to value those moments more and yet not get so caught up in them that we lose sight of the larger picture. Bigger problem is our fixation on the end over the means. Year-in-reviews are like highlight packages... they focus on the goal, not the work that led to the goal. The result is all that matters, not the process. Creates the illusion that goals are easily attained. So if I look back on my year... I’d say... OK... June 2, 2003—first book is published. That’s it, that’s all. But what about all those small, seemingly mundane and irrelevant moments from March 1996 (let’s say) to December 2003 that led up to that June 2nd achievement? What about those seemingly endless hours spent alone in a goddamn cold basement often staring blankly at the screen or watching “Seinfeld?” They all contributed to the end result, didn’t they? They’re all part of the package, ain’t they? And that’s just moments DIRECTLY related to the end. That doesn’t include all those earlier years... filled with seemingly inconsequential moments that in fact contributed to that June 2 ‘end.’
’Course, as I was telling that sweet Latvian friend, I know that deep down we need those ‘end’ moments. All those moments of doubt... all those days that don’t seem to add up, connect or go anywhere... suddenly come together on June 2, 2003, when I see the book before me and realize, somewhat incredulously, that all those seemingly wasteful, disconnected moments of doubt, failure, success, hard work... did add up to something (materially). But that moment passed quickly because I’d already finished a second manuscript by that time. You move on. Still... the book remains as a beacon, tomb, or a series of shouts from ghosts of a sometimes forgotten past.
So hey... my friend... by all means... take this Year-in-Review moment to reflect and look back at your life... but don’t expect to clear the field and start anew just like that. That’s fool fodder. Who you are now was constructed—no shit—over a lifetime of seemingly irrelevant moments, so why on earth would you expect to be able to just up and radically alter yourself in a single year, let alone a single day.
And now... a special bonus... ’cause I know you want it:
Hmm... it was pretty damn cold... went back to boxing classes... Kelly signed us up for snacks at Jarvis’ school during the first two weeks of January. That SUCKS. Snow fell. We have a long driveway. I enjoy using the plow... but why can’t those plow fucks distribute the snow somewhere BEYOND our damn laneway entrance. Man it’s cold. Didn’t stop us from Friday night hockey. We were playing sometimes in -30 (Celsius) weather. Was bad for 10-15 minutes... but then the body warms up. Making final edits to Estonian book. Trying to work on this “hockey” book. Having a hard time. Hmm... my urine is too yellowy. I gotta take more fluids. Wanna kill that publisher of Chunklet. Wrote a piece on Sterling Hayden for them eight months ago. Good piece. They ain’t using it in this new issue. Says there’s no room.
Went to New York to hang with Signe, Gerben and Anet. Plympton had a nice party for us. Slept in Bill’s studio. Had to climb a ladder to go to bed every night. Heavy snowstorm. Wore my new camper shoes. They’re the best shoes in the world. Not feeling great. Really cold in New York. Spent $300 on dinner at Da Silvanos. What a weird experience that was... we were out of element... beside mobsters and fashion fag-hags. Guy who wrote Lauren book beside us. Food sucked too. Got back, drove to Dartmouth College. Ehrlich didn’t tell me I was reviewing student work. Fuck me. I hate doing that. It’s not fair.
Was also on a panel about creativity. That was fun. Was invited as a writer... not as this festival schmuck. The girl who moderated the panel was later in a serious accident. She was in a coma. Not sure if she made it. Reminds me... met Linda Pakre at Estonia house. She’s keen on doing this Estonian animation festival next November in New York. Bundle o’ energy on that gal. Nice drive back from Vermont. Relaxed. Cold. When I got back my retro Bruins circa-72 jersey was waiting. Wore it to hockey that week. Jarvis is sick. Spending the week with him. We’re watching the Star Wars films. Want him to see that good and evil aren’t so easy to define... but realize the series is also about a father trying to kill his son. Oops. Now I’m sick. Trying to keep writing the hockey book but feeling real groggy.
SAFO... fuck why are we doing it? No one cares except the students. Still... got Oscar Grillo on the jury. Hear he’s pretty funny. Two years of sobriety. Wee-haa, who wants a drink!? Still fucking hard to manage all this time. Finally get my copy of that nifty Spanish festival publication, Animac. They do a great job with the design and layout. I wrote something about—yeah, yeah—sex and animation for them. Was nice to see alongside these serious academic-oriented pieces. Ha.
Why is there a big lump on my neck? Shit. A virus. Mono or something. Stuck in the house for about 10 days. Most sick I ever been. Good excuse to watch “Murder She Wrote” every day and not write. National Arts Centre just sent us a letter saying they’re getting rid of their projection equip. Fuck me. We’ve been there since 1976. Why are they just sending us a fucking letter? Asswipes. Takes us two to three weeks to solve the problem for 2004... but solve it we do. What’s with the Estonians? Why ain’t they getting back to me about the status of this book? Man, they’re slow. Is there a pagan clock? Talking to a lot of old hockey players. Man oh man is that something. Tom Johnson, Red Storey, called the Gump but he had a heart attack. Just found out that the first guy I interviewed for the book, Chuck Rayner, kicked it. Damn. Meantime... trying to put spring ASIFA issue together. Pain in the ass trying to find GOOD writers and better ideas.
Hockey playoffs are here. Life has meaning. Still ploughing away on that book. I’m late on my March 31 deadline... but I have a fear that the publisher has split. Rumors abound. SAFO’s coming together but this Colburn gal is bugging me. Never responds. Maybe this was a mistake. Got Richard O’Connor on board though. He’ll be a good fresh perspective... and the best dressed jury member ever. Marcel Jean will hold them all together. Starting to train for the 10k race... but pain in the knee. Need new shoes I guess.
Teachers saying they might hold Jarvis back. Fuck them. Montessori is supposed to be about the kid’s going at their OWN pace. What gives. Turned the public school across the street into a private school. Found a review copy of Nick Tosches’ new book.[*] Am I in heaven, baby. Great. Senators knocked off the Islanders... yeah... off to Detroit. Showing Ottawa ‘Best of’ at college there. I hate Detroit. My biological father lives there. He wants nothing to do with me I think ‘cause his alcoholic wife thinks its wrong. I brought his number. We had a good time in 2000, got drunk talked hockey and gals. Never saw him again. I should call him... but I won’t. Read Tosches’ book. Disappointing. Damn.
Back to Detroit. Reviewing this school’s animation dept. Nice people there. Detroit still sucks. I do nothing but watch TV at night ‘cause there ain’t nowhere to go. Drove this time. What a dull drive from Ottawa-Toronto-Windsor-Detroit. Wanted out so bad I drove back at 9:30 pm... got to Ottawa around 5:00 am. Hallucinated for the last two hours. Was convinced something was in the trunk. Sens beat the Flyers. Off to the semi-finals! Listened to Canucks/Wild game and blared “Alien Lanes” through Oshawa.
Gettin’ real stressed. Almost to the end of the hockey book. It’s eating me apart. Realize that I have not forgiven my parents... have not forgiven myself. Decide to do two things—tell stepdadcop that I cannot accept him as he is ... tell mom she was a terrible parent, but I forgive her. Didn’t see that coming. Kelly’s off to Turku. I bailed. Too much into this book. Estonians are driving me crazy. They assure me we’re launching the book at Annecy... but I haven’t even seen the cover. I enjoy weeks alone with Jarvis. We have a good ol’ casual time. No mom rhythm to get in the way.
I finish the hockey book the night that the Senators tie the series with the Devils. Also my birthday. Decide to spend $100 on Game 7 tickets. Crazy. Ottawa is crazy with Stanley cup fever. You can feel this pride and togetherness and confidence surging through the city. I show up two hours early and sit alone in the empty rink watching it fill with people. Ottawa loses. They’re tied with two minutes to go and they blow it. A simple defensive play fucked up. The city is shot silent. Fuckaduck. I can still see that Friesen goal. Off to Annecy. Send my manuscript to the publisher. He’s gone under. Fuck me. Need a new publisher. Gonna be hard. This ain’t no conventional bio. Saw the Estonian cover. Looks great.
Fly to Amsterdam, great drive with Gerben, Anet and Erik (Holland festival friends). Spend a night in Paris... I order some ugly-ass fucking fish that I refuse to eat. Every time I go to Paris I order something stupid, says Gerben. He likes to remind me that he’s better than me.
Long drive to Annecy... but a good time... beautiful mountains... pit stops... lots of music... got into Dylan’s Royal Albert concert. Relaxing, man. Arrive at Annecy. Hmm... I’m bored. Ticket system sucks. Nice to see friends... but too many to see... just becomes stupid. Estonians arrive late. Book looks great. I think I slept with the book that night. Find out the Estonians didn’t even fucking reserve a space for the launch. Gerben, Anet and I race around to ensure that we have one. Goes well. Everyone says they like the book. Of course they’re going to say that.
Jogged every morning. Nice to jog in Annecy, man. Festival was OK... but student films were bad except for this crazy one by this JJ Villard guy. Wanna see that one again. Was given a VHS copy of Priit Parn’s new film. Man, was I disappointed. Priit needs a rest. Left the party quietly. Too many people to say bye too. Fuggit. Eager to go. One more night in Paris. Remember this Italian rest. Chick talking about the “darkies.” I can’t believe I heard that word, especially from another immigrant!
Line up for four hours in Paris airport. Lost my heart monitor watch. Air Canada cuts meet French hospitality. Oh man. Got back. Get sent to Toronto Immigration. Held for 20 minutes. Apparently Chris Robinson, with the same birthdate, is wanted in a variety of U.S. states for a variety of offences. Jesus man... after about 10 minutes... I think back to my drinking days. Maybe I was in Jacksonville? Did I assault a cop? Finally they release me and note that I’m not the guy on their computer.
Start doing pre-selection for SAFO. Monday, June 16. Letter arrives from Telefilm Canada. They’re cutting all our funding. Just like that. I dust off my résumé and apply for some jobs. I’ve had it. Fuck this festival and fuck all these idiot Canadian bureaucrats who want something for nothing. Kelly O’Brien died. Oh man... she founded the festival. Ward-Gatti 3 is this week... but I watch Ward-Gatti 2. Ward gets his ear drum punctured, but refuses to go down. Inspires me to fight these Telefilm Canada dipshits. Next three to four weeks is spent planning a massive media campaign. Jarvis finishes school. Doing pretty well but still behind. Teacher meetings make me angry. Why? Two writers read my hockey book and like it a lot. Makes me feel pretty damn good despite it all.
Couple weeks in (after Jarvis’ fifth birthday party—too many kids... too many kids) we start getting strange calls... apparently the funding decision is going to be reversed. S’like “X-Files.” Hmm... man... I’m in good shape. Look at those shoulder muscles. I’d like to hit someone... maybe Richard Stursberg? Maybe an animator? Leading the hockey team in scoring and the league in penalty minutes. How’s that possible? Mid-July. Funding restored for now. Rest of month is spent watching all the entries. No time for nutting else. I hate myself. Why am I doing this job? I’m sick of this shit. No structure... no board... shitty pay. Not overly impressed with the crop this year except this JJ Villard guy. Made this Bukowski film. It’s great... real raw and honest. Easily the best film here. I like this job.
Putting the catalog together and getting my manuscript ready for publishers. Canadian writer tells me he likes the manuscript. Man... but two other friends say it’s chaotic. Who to believe? It’s supposed to be chaotic. It’s about identity. Score a sweet job writing for Montage magazine. Pay is way too good. Few more of those and I can leave the festival. Funding coming in for SAFO. Fuck me. Why is it always last minute? We’re almost sold out of passes. What gives? I know it’s smaller... but what’s with this festival anyway. We’re gonna can it either way. Makes no sense. People are confused... people are not interested in student work even if it’s better than the films at the OIAF. All those “veteran” animators should be at SAFO getting a fresh kick of energy.
Grandfather sold his house. Shit man, I was born in that house. We have a final shindig. All of us roaming the empty house like ghosts.... Looking at every wall, every mark, every crack and stain and corner for evidence that we existed here once. I’ve never seen my relatives like this. Usually they’re all so cold and distant. My grandfather does not attend this farewell. He’s moved into this care facility with my grandma, who’s got Alzheimer’s. Holy shit... I just found out that Linda from the Estonia house, the woman who was organizing the Estonian anim. festival, just died. Apparently she was in a coma for two weeks. She’d fallen asleep in her apartment and left a cigarette or candle burning. Someone suggested that she was reading my book at the time (she’d just bought a copy). Assholes. Guess our festival is off.
Trying to get ASIFA magazine done. ASIFA pres. has apparently lost his mind. Squirrel meat tastes like hamburger. Off to Switzerland for Fantoche festival. Introducing Kovalyov screening and moderating some panels. Opening ceremony is awful... I mean awful. Nice town. Getting sick. So many beautiful women.... when does THAT stop? Gerben and I have nice chats. OK... Hold up... this town is getting boring. Can only jog so far. Can only see those films so many times. Drinking a lot of coffee. Shit... got a cold. Oh man... stopped in Toronto again. Sent through Immigration. I’m still wanted in the U.S. Jesus Christ... can’t they correct this? I have to call this 1-800-number I’m told. Back to Ottawa. Kelly’s friend Kelly died. I sorta knew her. She had cancer for four years. Only stayed alive for her two young kids. She was kinda bitchy but I liked her. She told you what she felt. Johnny Cash died that week. Big deal.
Sent out manuscript to six publishers. Heard back from one. Said I can’t write (basically). Fuck him and his mom. Find out later that publisher is facing heavy financial losses. Like to tell myself that’s the real reason. Jarvis is back at school. After one day, they called him up to the “all days.” He’s so excited. His confidence soars overnight and he’s suddenly excited about school. I told those teachers. Pal loans me Alan Partridge DVD. British comedy. Funny. Started playing ice hockey again. Man, it’s zen. So damn relaxing. You can cheat. Just glide and feel that breeze. I dunno what it is... but it’s calming and exhilarating.
Andreas Hykade and family visit us for a few days before SAFO. His daughter doesn’t speak any English. Jarvis speaks no German. They get along great. SAFO goes off w/o hitch except Grillo’s pissed off because of Meltzer’s article. I think he just likes to complain. We get a note from head of Telefilm Canada congratulating us on being sold out. Says it was good that they had second thoughts. Hmm... I guess our massive media campaign had no effect.
Son of Satan won. I’m pleased as a bitch in heat being tongued about that. It was far and away the best film. A lot didn’t think so. A lot of students found it ugly. Idiots. They all seem to think that “art” is flawless and perfect. What’s with these kids? What’s with their teachers? Hey... some schmuck doesn’t like my “stoner” introductions. I don’t smoke pot, buddy. I guess he’d prefer the formal, fake fucks that usually go up on stage, pretending they care and like you and all that. At least I don’t pretend. John Canemaker is the Jean Beliveau of animation. A real swell guy. Doesn’t take any shit either.
Got my head punched in ball hockey by some wingnut. So much for boxing skills. When he gets the same one-game suspension I get, I ‘retire’ from this nuttiness. Pride hurt, head bruised.
Urine is consistently clear. Doctor says I’m in good shape. (Means trouble I figure).
Dog’s medicine is working. She jogs with me, but no more limps. Expensive of course.
Estonian festival is happening but no idea how. I’ve organized the films and the guests... and all that... but have no idea where I’m staying or what’s happening. Estonians are really slow. It’s not just me.
Jarvis’ school has Harvest feast. I hate other parents. Fake conversations all night with these pseudo rich shits. I offer Jarvis any toy of his choice not to go... but he refuses. Idiot or genius? A lot of birthday parties this month. I really have a social problem with other parents. Kelly and I just don’t fit in. Hmm... screw it.
Chris Lanier’s SAFO ‘review’ comes out. Man... I don’t know if he liked the festival or not... but it don’t matter. He wrote a beautiful text. He GOT it. Life usually stops at festivals... but life somehow managed to eke its way into SAFO. Amazing really. Two more book rejects. One just doesn’t get it. Other does... but says it doesn’t fit them. Started Level 3 boxing. Doing sit-ups on some huge balloonish ball. Why? Sent a short story to some British mag. Let’s see.
Off to RISD and New York. Family adventure and work. Senior Critic at RISD. Damn that was fun... enjoyed exchanging ideas with the students... and a good way to prevent bad films before they happen! Parking sucks in Providence. Saw They Might be Giants live at Borders in Providence Mall. Why? Off to New York. One night in Brooklyn with ROC. We see GBV at Warsaw. Good time. They were smashed from the get-go. Off to Manhattan. Driving. Wow. I love driving here ‘cause I’m an asshole. Staying at Hotel Penn. Introducing three nights of Estonian animation at Two Boots Cinema. Party/launch for book. All goes well. Mati Kutt and Priit Tender are here. Even Grant comes from North Carolina.
Wish I was drinking. Oh man... and there’s Signe, Griffin, Krause x 2, Missy, Jessie Schmal, Dovas, Kugel, Solomon... nice afternoon with Sarah the Amazing One. I love this town. For three days I just walked up and down following the lights. Hey... the Boxing Hall of Fame is on the way back. It’s really small and quiet. They have these bronzed fists... One guy had this MASSIVE fist—size of a kid’s head. Jesus. No problems. Finished another short story. Jarvis is sick but wants to go to school. What the hell is wrong with that boy?
Kelly’s off to Korea for a week. Some best of SAFO thingie. I didn’t want to go. Turned down three invites to Korea this year. Been twice before. Kinda boring. Too far to go for a few days. Besides ... it means a week with me and Jarv. Good times. Late nights. Sugar. Drive to MTL with friend, Matt. He’s got a small (really small) press. Published two local writers. Sold well. Really admire Matt’s work. The writers are so damn happy too. Fuck big publishers. Starting to work on third book. S’all about my fathers... about a guy who finds his real father only to find that his father doesn’t know his own father. Wish it was fiction. Bought a used electric guitar and an amp. Haven’t played electric in a decade. Nice to have around for those rock-out days. Started work on 2004. Lots of big changes planned, and I’ve got this ambitious programming series that’s gonna be a bitch to put together. Hmm... maybe I do like this job after all.
Xmas decorations go up just as I start getting sick.
Bronchitis. God damn it. Sick for almost the entire month (even as I write this on December 15). Saw images from new Kovalyov film Milk. Looks real nice. Lots of new films to look forward to: Chris Landreth’s film about Ryan Larkin is coming out, as is Michele Cournoyer’s new film. Tried to shovel snow, tried to walk... but coughed so hard I puked. Haven’t boxed or run in over two weeks. I hate this house. This is the sickest I’ve ever been in my life. Couldn’t even read much. Couldn’t do much some days except stare at the walls. Reminds me of writing.
Why is everyone crying about Roy Disney? I could give a flying squirrel about this guy and all his problems. All these animators embrace it like it’s their own. It ain’t, fools. All of a sudden ol’ confused nephew Roy is the modern bastion of art. Jeepers.
Managed to drive Jarvis to school this week. What’s with those ladies? Do they not GET THE FUCKING LINE CONCEPT? Why does that BMW bitch park in the no-park spot and get out and just ignore the line? I’d like to slap her... but I bet her hubbie already does that. Hmm... maybe I shouldn’t quit therapy just yet. Why do the other ladies get out of the car and chat? The rule is that you stay in the car. I ain’t lining up no more.
Kelly goes to Toronto. Telefilm Canada says that funding is still in place for 2004. I’m cautiously optimistic. Another studio has also come in big for us. Lots of work to be done.
Saw a commercial that irked me. Something about a place you can easily go to get cash advances when you receive “unexpected bills.” Who the fuck receives unexpected bills? Is there a gremlin in your house using your credit card, or did you go on a spending spree while you were pumped up with liquor taken while trying to soothe an aching sense of nothingness with stuff?
Watching this show “Firefly.” Man, it’s bad. Everyone was raving about it. Bad acting. Pretentious. As hollow as Gary Bettman. My urine is yellow again. Must be this illness.
Well... s’about it. I guess I prolly jerked off almost every day... sometimes to porn... sometimes to imaginings... my scalp is too dry... I chew my nails (fingers, not toes)... I probably spent too much time sitting around (even though I’m in the best physical shape of my life: jog more than 10 miles/week, boxing twice a week, ice hockey two hours/week.) It’s actually amazing that I did anything. Oh... and I thought about dying a lot. Far too much, but that’s sorta the norm in my life. I could eat a little better... cut the carbs... but I ain’t doing too bad. I’d like to spend more time with Jarv, but he likes having private time after a day of school. Can’t blame him. I still managed to write at least one freelance article per month. Made a few new friends this year but lost a couple too. Still trying to find my half-brother in New York State. No luck so far. He’s four months younger than me. My urine is really yellow. Better get more fluids. Prolly just this illness.
So hey... relatively speaking.... I’d say things ain’t so bad.
(January, 2004)